Page 47 of Don't Puck the Wrong Brother

I need the upper hand here. Maybe if I just kiss him once, get it over with, I'll realize there's nothing special about him. That the night we spent together was just a fluke, the fun we had was a pure accident.

No, that's a terrible idea. I can't kiss him until…well, ever. Or at least not until our tenth date, which is basically never since we're not dating.

A car engine revs outside, and I duck below the windowsill, peering over the edge like a spy in a bad movie. Sanderson's car swings into a parking space with the same confidence he does everything else. He steps out, glancing up at the building, and I drop to the floor.

Shit. This is ridiculous! I crawl across the carpet toward my door.You are an adult woman hiding from a boy.

But I keep crawling anyway until I’m far enough to stand. I smooth my sweatpants and take a deep breath, running to my dorm. I glance in the mirror one more time, pinch my cheeks for color, and then hate myself a little for doing it.

When the knock comes, I'm ready. Or as ready as I'll ever be.

Except I don't answer it. Instead, I find myself backing toward my closet, an idea forming. Hide. Just hide until he gives up and goes away. It worked for three-year-old me during games of hide and seek; maybe it will work now.

I slip into the closet, pulling the door mostly closed but leaving a crack to see through. The knocking continues, more insistent now.

"Hannah?" Sanderson's voice calls through the door. "I know you're in there. These girls outed you. Said you just walked in here."

Traitors. I make a mental note to steal all of the good snacks in retaliation.

"Come on, Hannah. Just talk to me."

Silence, then the sound of something sliding under my door. A note?

"Fine," he says after another minute. "I'll try again tomorrow."

Footsteps retreat down the hall. I count to thirty, then cautiously emerge from the closet, feeling both relieved and oddly disappointed. I cross to the door and pick up the paper he slid under it.

It's not a note. It's a restaurant receipt. From the ice cream place where we had our cones. He's circled the date and time and written underneath:First date. Looking forward to #2.

Despite myself, I smile. Then I unlock the door, intending to peek out and make sure he's really gone.

The door swings open to reveal Sanderson leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, a triumphant grin on his face.

"Knew you were in there," he says.

I try to close the door, but he's too quick, wedging his foot in the gap. "Not so fast, Hannah Banana."

"Don't call me that," I say, my voice an octave higher than normal. "And I was about to take a shower, so…"

"With all your makeup freshly applied?" He raises an eyebrow, and I curse myself for the lip gloss.

"What do you want, Sanderson?" I almost plead.

"To see you," he says simply. "You've been avoiding me."

"I've been studying," I correct him. "Some of us care about our GPAs."

"You've been hiding," he insists. "And I want to know why. Was our date that bad?"

"It wasn't a date," I say automatically.

"Then what was it?"

"An ice cream consumption event."

He laughs, the sound rich and genuine. "An ice cream consumption event? That's what you're going with?"

Despite myself, I smile. "Stop."

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